The Pathologist & The Virgin
by crashbangwallop
Summary: A collection of one-off fics based in & around The Full House ficverse by Emcee Frodis. GO READ HER STORY BEFORE YOU READ THIS ONE. Lots of Sherlolly/Mollylock, daft cameos from the TV series, a serious amount of fluff & the occasionally bit of smut.
1. Distracted

**Okay so... REALLY got into Sherlock fandom recently. And _The Full House_ by Emcee Frodis (#7895293) is one of the most WONDERFUL Sherlolly stories you will ever read (Seriously! Go read it!) Then I read _Hooper House Rules_ by Amalia Kensington (#7973501), which is a collection of short fics based in _The Full House_ ficverse. And, well, I couldn't get either of these amazing stories out of my head. So, as stupid as it is of me to try & match up to these wonderful writers, I really wanted to have a go.**

**This is my contribution (though if either of the other two should tell me to take this down because it offends their eyes I will do!) They're just mini one-off fics set in specific points during _The Full House_ ficverse.**

**There are BIG SPOILERS for both the_ Sherlock_ series & _The Full House/Hooper House Rules_ here, so go read & watch them first before you do anything else!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters but if I owned a Sherlock I'd perhaps be the happiest woman alive.**

* * *

**Chapter One. _Distracted_. Set around Ch2 of _The Full House._**

Sherlock's eyes flickered open and he frowned a little to himself, staring up at the ceiling of Molly Hooper's living room. As usual, his fingers were steepled beneath his jaw and he lay neatly sprawled across the pathologist's sofa. Something had broken him from his reverie.

Footsteps were awkwardly thumping their way up to the front door of Molly Hooper's flat. Sherlock listened. He could tell by the familiar soft thud that they were Molly's, though they were much more sporadic & uneven than usual - she clearly kept stopping after every three steps or so. Occasionally they also fell a little harder than usual, which indicated that she was perhaps carrying something heavy. The detective glanced at the clock - it was several hours after the usual time she left work. Obviously, something had kept her late.

On cue, Molly opened her front door with her shoulder & awkwardly side-stepped into the small front room. Sherlock saw she had her usual handbag hanging from one shoulder, but was also cradling several box files in her arms, & had a laptop bag slung across her chest. She was clearly struggling to manoeuvre herself; closing the front door with her hip & holding some of the post she'd collected from the mat in her mouth. Sherlock imagined that if John were here, he'd rush to help her. As it was, the detective was rather comfortable in his current position & wasn't going to move.

Molly gave the merest flicker of a nervous smile - envelopes clenched in her teeth - as she bundled all of her files & the laptop over to the small dining table, giving a great sigh when she'd put them down. Sherlock watched her rub at the back of her neck as she padded off to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

"Sherlock, do you want-?"

"Coffee, thank you." He cut her off, pressing his praying fingers to his lips & shutting his eyes again.

A few moments later he felt Molly's presence by his side & heard the tinkling of a china cup being placed on the table by his head. The smell of the strong black coffee invaded his nostrils. He then heard Molly move back to the dining table & sit in a chair to begin sorting through the papers & files she'd brought home.

Sherlock opened one eye & glanced at the back of the pathologist's head for a moment. He couldn't help himself.

"Was it _your _mistake?"

Molly turned a little in her chair looking startled, "My mistake…?"

Sherlock gave a humourless snort of laughter, "Something has clearly been keeping you late at work tonight. And I know from following up all current cases with Lestrade there are no new nor particularly mysterious bodies since yesterday. Judging by the amount of paperwork you have, & by the strain in your neck & shoulders, the amount you _have_ been doing, there has been some sort of cock-up at the mortuary, has there not…?"

Molly looked surprised but impressed. Through his one open eye, Sherlock could clearly see something akin to reverence in her expression. He rather enjoyed that.

"No, not my mistake." She tittered, turning back in her chair, "Some new boy from the forensics department trying to play mortician. He's made a proper mess of it. Misdiagnosed a couple of big things that pretty much turn the whole case around. Carter was furious when I told him."

Her eyes quickly scanned over a graph on a sheet in her hand as she muttered.

"His analysis are never explained fully, his simulations are sloppy… The police are going mad at us. And, of course, it's up to_ me _to sort it all out." She rolled her neck on her shoulders & winced at the pain in her joints, "I've just been hunched over going through all this paperwork all day."

"You are the only competent in the morgue," Sherlock stated plainly as he closed his eyes again.

"Th-Thankyou, Sherlock," Molly squeaked, the usual nervousness returning to her girlish voice.

He didn't open his eyes when he responded this time; mainly because he didn't want to witness the ridiculous blushing of her cheeks whenever he spoke to her.

"That was a statement of facts, Molly, not a compliment."

Sherlock meant to delve back into his mind palace - where he'd been before Molly had disrupted him with her uneven footfalls on the stairs - but he found the sounds of her shuffling through sheets of paper distracting. He repositioned himself on the sofa, exhaling a little more loudly than usual before taking long, steadying breath & settling himself, eyes closed.

The silence was broken by the creaking of Molly's wooden dining chair as she shifted her weight. Sherlock frowned angrily.

"Molly. I am trying to access important information & require as near to perfect silence as possible for optimum concentration."

"I-I'm sorry, Sherlock," She mumbled. Even as she spoke, the dining chair gave another creak as she fidgeted.

"Do stop jittering so, Molly." He reprimanded her, "It's terribly distracting to hear the chairs groan under your weight,"

"M-My weight…?"

"Yes, your weight. And no, before you even ask, that wasn't me suggesting you are morbidly obese or any other such nonsense. You are a perfectly adequate size for your height." He sighed again; a little more dramatically than last time, "But could you please just keep still & silent for longer than a minute! I need to think!"

"Can't get comfortable," She muttered almost inaudibly, flexing her shoulders again, "My back's killing me."

Before the end of the last word had left her lips, she suddenly heard an alarming growl of irritation, saw a flurry of movement behind her & felt long, slender fingers on each shoulder. Instinctively she tensed & tried to turn but Sherlock's voice cut through her surprise.

"Sit still!"

Without any kind of hesitation, Molly quickly obeyed & sat perfectly straight, facing forward. Sherlock wondered if the years of fantasising about him like a lovesick puppy had conditioned her body to automatically accept any orders he gave it. He half-smiled to himself at the theory, though he was glad she wasn't able to see him smirking. Life would be so much simpler if he had this sort of effect on everyone. Swiftly he began to massage his fingertips into the soft tissue above her collarbones, pushing at the hardened muscle tissue.

"Wh-what are you doing…?" Molly croaked.

Sherlock didn't respond straight away. He was concentrating on running the pads of his thumbs up & down the sides of Molly's neck. He could feel her begin to slacken beneath him.

"Making you comfortable," He replied curtly, "So that I can then get some peace & quiet."

"Oh," Molly managed, though Sherlock could hear it was becoming an effort for her to speak. The skin behind her ears was already growing hot. He couldn't see her face, though he supposed it had turned beetroot red.

He paused & lifted his hands away from her. "Would you like me to stop?"

Molly shook her head, the word "no" barely making it out of her parted lips.

Sherlock lips twitched in a small smile as he continued. His pale fingers deftly made short work of her shoulders & slid up a little to the top of her spine. He moved in tight circles, pushing at the skin until her head loosened and fell forward. It was rather like feeling butter begin to melt under his fingertips.

Molly gave a little groan. Immediately, she tried to sit up straight again, flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Sherlock! I didn't mean-! I'm not-! It's just - I haven't been massaged in a long time & my shoulders are really tense and-"

"Be quiet Molly."

Sherlock gently pushed her head back down with one hand before grinding his palms onto the backs of Molly's shoulders. She sighed & seemed to lean into his hands a little.

"How.. How did you learn how to do this?"

Sherlock sighed, "Do what?"

"I thought you only retained useful information. You said you deleted anything that wasn't useful to you." Sherlock thought her heard a smile creep into her voice, "Knowing how to massage people can't be useful to you… Can it?"

"You do not have to be trained as a masseuse in order to lessen stress in overworked muscles," Sherlock responded as he moved his hands further up toward her neck, "I have an excellent working knowledge of both muscle structure & human anatomy & am well aware of how applying pressure to different joints can feel both relaxing & pleasurable."

This answer seemed to satisfy her. That, or perhaps she'd completely lost the ability to speak.

Sherlock continued to mould the skin around her neck; his fingertips brushing at her hairline. He grazed the base of her skull & used his nails to softly massage the skin up & around her ears. Goosebumps began to form on her skin. He ignored them, pushing his digits in wider & softer circles up & down the curve of her throat. He felt her swallow hard as his fingers slid a little further toward her chest.

Then, he stood upright.

"Better?"

It seemed to take Molly a few seconds to come back to reality, but she lifted her head & smiled meekly at him. As he had deduced, she was a rather alarming shade of crimson.

"Yes. T-thankyou."

Sherlock nodded formally, "You're welcome."

He strode back to the sofa & fell back onto it, resuming his prior position & closing his eyes. Molly said nothing & for a while the little apartment was perfectly still, though Sherlock found he was still unable to concentrate. He wondered if the pathologist was turned in her chair & watching him. Of _course_ she was, he didn't even have to open his eyes.

"Stop staring at me, Molly. It's distracting."


	2. GreenEyed

**Just to reiterate; this is a set of one-off ficlets based around **_**The Full House**_** by Emcee Frodis (#7895293) & **_**Hooper House Rules**_** by Amalia Kensington (#7973501). (Thankyou for letting people know my stupid little fics exist btw, it's a bloody honour!)**

**There are BIG SPOILERS for both the**_** Sherlock**_** series & **_**The Full House/Hooper House Rules**_** here, so go read & watch them first before you do anything else!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters but if I owned a Sherlock he'd always be naked.**

**Bit less fluff, but more angst in this one. Sherlock can be such a **_**twat**_**. Hope you enjoy. ^^**

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**Chapter Two. **_**Green-Eyed**_**. Set directly between Ch7 & Ch8 **_**The Full House **_**(during the few days described where Sherlock has not spoken to Molly for a few days).**

Molly gave a little squeak as she carefully pushed the stud of the earring through her lobe. It had been a while since she'd bothered to wear anything in her pierced ears (work didn't allow it and it wasn't often that she got dressed up), so it seemed that the hole had begun to close. Securing the dangling silver hoop in place, she noticed that her lobe had turned a little red from the irritation. Fortunately she had decided to wear her long, mousey hair down tonight & it wouldn't be too obvious.

Taking a deep breath and standing back a few steps, Molly studied herself in the mirror. She was wearing her least worn-out pair of blue jeans; dressed up somewhat with a nicely cut, black camisole top. She was also wearing the only pair of heels that she owned - brown leather ankle boots. They were only three and a half inches high, but Molly still felt herself wobble a little bit on the spot. She was used to wearing plimsols all day.

Molly leant forward into the mirror and applied a little more mascara to her eyelashes. Again, she wasn't really used to any excessive amount of make-up. When the only people you interacted with all day was dead bodies and fellow forensics geeks it felt a little… _Pointless_. And it wasn't as if she was going anywhere special tonight either, to be honest. Mike Stamford was celebrating his 40th birthday at his local pub and most of St Barts had been invited out. Usually she wouldn't have bothered, but after losing her job she'd appreciated the offer to see some familiar faces again - especially as being cooped up with Sherlock for hours on end without him saying a word to her all day was beginning to give her cabin fever.

She felt a small jolt of something unpleasant in her stomach at the thought of Sherlock. It was ridiculous, she _knew_ it was ridiculous. She was young and, as Sherlock himself had put it - "moderately attractive". Why shouldn't she get dressed up and go out like other, normal women of her age? It was a drunken snog. Just a bloody, stupid, _glorious _drunken snog. She hadn't even dared believe anymore would come of it - and even when Sherlock had kissed her again in order to "experiment", Molly was ashamed to admit to herself just how much she'd enjoyed it. She was surprised with just how little she cared that there clearly wasn't any emotional subtext with Sherlock; it had just been an experiment for him. But now it was over and he was barely speaking to her. She wasn't even sure if he was capable of registering the awkwardness that hung over the flat when they were both there, together, completely silent. Maybe that was just normal for him.

A few experimental kisses did not equal monogamy, no matter how much she may have wished it was so. She was going to go out, flutter her eyelashes, be bought drinks by men, talk, laugh and come home late. Just like everyone else.

Taking a deep breath, Molly grabbed her jacket and handbag and walked into the living room in order to wait for her cab. As always, Sherlock was lying cross-legged across her sofa; his head resting on a pile of pillows at one end. He was idly plucking at the strings of his violin and staring into space. He glanced briefly in her direction as she entered, looked away, then did a dramatic double take, cocking one eyebrow.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

Molly swung her handbag onto one shoulder and instinctively hunched, folding her arms down her front. It made her nervous when Sherlock's full attention was on her.

"Dressed like what?"

"Like _that_," Sherlock sprung up from the couch and stood in one fluid motion, "Where are you going?"

She opened her mouth to respond but the detective held up one finger and a look of recognition flooded his long, sharp features, "Ah. Mike Stamford's birthday party. Of course."

"Most of the St Barts staff are going," She squeaked. She hadn't actually expected Sherlock to pay her any attention - he hadn't said a single word to her since their last kiss over two days ago. Molly struggled to suppress the flush of blood that she knew was creeping up her cheeks.

He was stood a few steps away, eyeing her closely. She felt as if she might be getting smaller under the pressure of his gaze.

Sherlock cocked his head curiously, "You've made much more effort on your appearance than you usually do."

Molly nibbled at her bottom lip, confused. She tried not to linger on the fact that this clearly meant Sherlock only saw her as scruffy & plain. It stung her too much. "Well, we're _going out_."

Sherlock narrowed those blue-grey eyes. Molly knew what was coming, but before she could open her mouth to speak a torrent of words suddenly came spilling from the detective's lips;

"You're wearing the only jeans you own that aren't splattered with blood or luminol or any other chemical agent so clearly these are a pair saved away as _not_ for work. That top is evidently new - you've pulled the label out of the back a little hastily & the plastic from the tag is still attached…" His pale eyes grazed over her face and Molly could do nothing but look toward the floor. She hated it when he did this. How was he able to see through absolutely everything she did so clearly? Sometimes it felt as if he could read minds. The mere idea that Sherlock had any way of knowing some of the extraordinarily private thoughts that she had -_ particularly about him_ - made her blush even harder. He continued with his deduction of her, oblivious or otherwise unconcerned with her reaction.

"You hardly ever bother with jewellery - your earlobes are obviously sore from where you've forced those earrings through… The leather on your shoes is still hardened; clearly shoes you don't wear too often. For special occasions, then?"

Molly's cheeks were awash with humiliation and fury; hot tears were pricking the corners of her eyes. She wanted to just storm out of the apartment, though something kept her feet rooted to the spot.

"We're just _going out_," She managed hoarsely.

"Yes, with the staff you saw everyday at work for years. They all know what you look like. Why bother trying to impress any of them…?"

Daring herself to glance upward, Molly saw another dawning of realisation creep onto Sherlock's face again, only this time she noticed it was accompanied with a furrowed brow & a slight frown.

"_Ah_,"

He took a step backward. The expression of smugness was diminished like the flame from a candle. Instead, Sherlock actually looked as if he were pouting.

"You're hoping to attract men."

That was it. She tried to stifle the sob that came unbidden, though there was not much that could be done to disguise it. Feeling her mascara run down her cheeks, Molly quickly turned and fled to the bathroom. How did she ever let that man have such control over her? He was truly brilliant & wonderful, but sometimes he was also the biggest tosser she'd ever met.

* * *

Molly looked at the reflection of herself in the mirror over the sink and gasped when she realised Sherlock was stood behind her. He was watching silently over her shoulder. His brow was knitted together in thought, and he offered her a tissue.

She took one and angrily blew her nose before attempting to dab at the black streaks the makeup had left trailing down her face. Molly wished he'd just sod off and leave her to it, but somehow she couldn't find the words. Maybe she could just pretend he wasn't there. God, she looked a mess.

Sherlock watched for a moment before stepping closer and, reaching forward, wiped a few of the stained tears from her cheek with one slender thumb, holding her gaze in the reflection from the mirror. Molly froze. She hated herself - _and him _- for the effect that his touch had on her. Even though she was crying _because of him_, the gesture was so uncharacteristic of Sherlock she couldn't help but feel a little flutter in the pits of her stomach.

"I am sorry, Molly Hooper." He purred softly as his hand lingered by her face.

Despite herself, Molly found herself wanting to lean into him, wanting that palm to cradle her cheek properly. Maybe Sherlock read her thoughts again, as he quickly brought his hand back down to his side. She inwardly scolded herself.

"I…" His mouth twitched as if he wasn't certain of the words he was looking for, "I… Do not deal with crying people well. But, please know that I did not mean to upset you."

Molly turned so she could face him without having to look through the mirror. It startled her just how close he was stood - her nose was just inches from his chin.

"I just wish you wouldn't-"

"_I know_," He nodded, before she could finish. The merest hint of a smile flickered on his face before disappearing again. Suddenly, he looked uncomfortable,

"I understand your need to leave the flat for short periods of time; I am well aware I am not an easy person to live with."

Molly studied his expression closely. He looked conflicted.

"I am sure it will be good for both of us; you will be able to fulfil your human desire to socialise with others and I will have complete silence to myself for an entire evening."

It was unusual to hear Sherlock talk with such clear uncertainty in his tone but Molly remained silent. She feared that if he pushed him, she would never get to hear him say the words that were so obviously plaguing him.

"However, I should very much appreciate your cooperation in abstaining from bringing any previously unknown males back to the apartment with you." Sherlock coughed awkwardly and looked past her; quite obviously embarrassed, "Erm. If you don't mind."

Molly couldn't help herself. A wide grin split across her tear-streaked face.

"By that you mean, _'don't bring home any guys tonight'_, yes?"

Sherlock looked back at her and gave a formal nod, though the sincerity that shone from those indisputably gorgeous grey eyes betrayed him. In this light, they almost looked green.

Molly reached up and planted a small kiss on his left cheek, "Deal."


	3. Unconscious

**Just to reiterate; this is a set of one-off ficlets based around **_**The Full House**_** by Emcee Frodis (#7895293) & **_**Hooper House Rules**_** by Amalia Kensington (#7973501). (Thankyou , you beautiful pair!)**

**There are BIG SPOILERS for both the**_** Sherlock**_** series & **_**The Full House/Hooper House Rules**_** here, so go read & watch them first before you do anything else!**

**Thankyou SO much to everyone who's reviewed so far - **_**Lex**_** (obviously!), **_**faeryenchanter, coloradoandcolour, Adi Who is Also Mou**_** & especially **_**Nocturnias**_**, who also writes her own amazing Sherlolly fics. It means ALOT & if you could take a few seconds to review I'd be forever grateful - it's very inspiring to see so many people enjoying my stupid scribbles!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters but if I owned a Sherlock I'd stare at him all day.**

**I like experimenting with POVs, tenses and writing styles so I hope it isn't too off putting. Also… FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF. I hope it isn't too obvious that a great chunk of this chapter comes from the life-ruining crushes I'm sure we all have on Cumberbatch.**

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**Chapter Three. **_**Unconscious**_**. Set between Ch5 & Ch 6 of The Full House (where Sherlock is having to share a bed with Molly, and finding that her presence helps him sleep).**

Molly's eyes open in the darkness. She squints at the blue light coming from her alarm clock - _4.32am_ - and gives herself a few seconds to adjust. She is lying on her side, facing the bedside table; her contact solution and a glass of water by her head. It's far too early to have woken so suddenly, and she briefly wonders what it was that disturbed her.

As if in answer, Molly hears a soft hum of contentment by one ear and feels hot breath on her throat. She stiffens in surprise - also suddenly very aware of something warm loosely wound around her torso. Molly bites her lip, takes a sharp breath, and with her one free hand ever-so-carefully lifts the covers just enough so she can see.

A smooth, pale arm lies across her side; trapping her own left arm beneath it. A perfect collection of slender fingers are softy brushing against her stomach.

She pauses, bites her lip again, and then allows the duvet to fall back over her. Molly knows what this is, though she's struggling to believe it. Him? _Asleep?_

Despite herself, she finds that she's smiling and feels the familiar flutter of something she's already felt a million times before in the depths of her stomach. Moving with the silence and subtlety deserving of a woman often referred to as _mousey_, Molly manages to quietly turn onto her back. She thinks she feels the arm across her waist tighten a little as she moves; almost as if it's refusing to let go.

Her head rests flat against the pillow and Molly stares up at the darkened ceiling. The arm relaxes again. She feels it weighing on her stomach. When her chest rises with her breath, those lovely fingers graze against her side. Goosebumps raise on her skin.

Molly lets a sigh out into the darkness. For a moment she appreciates the beauty of a full, silver moon hung in her window. She wants to turn her head and look at what's next to her instead, but she's inexplicably a little nervous. Looking will make it_ real_, and this is the sort of stuff that curbed years of late night fantasies and daydreams; Molly's not sure she can deal with it being there. Infront of her. _In the flesh_.

She swallows hard before allowing herself to turn her head, but when she does, her heart almost jumps out of her mouth.

Sherlock Holmes - _the Sherlock Holmes_ - is lying on his front, his limbs askew; his side of the bedcovers wrapped entirely around one leg. He's still wearing his shirt & trousers from the day before and his beloved Blackberry sits on a pillow by his face. His left arm snakes under the knot of covers and entangles itself around Molly's torso. The other is spread-eagled and, from what she can make out in the darkness, hanging off the other side of the bed.

Molly's never seen Sherlock asleep before. It's almost jarring to witness such a sharp, brilliant man in such a state of vulnerability. She stares at him for a short time and realises this is the first time in many years that she's just been able to just_ look _without fear of anyone (including him) noticing. Automatically she inwardly curses herself for thinking like a lovesick teenager. _But still_. He he was; the object of every sordid fantasy or sickeningly sweet imagining lying next to her, illuminated by the blue glow from the alarm clock. She could just lie and stare at him for hours if she wanted to. No one would know.

Molly finds herself smiling again. It's been a while since she's felt this naughty. Deciding that this was not an opportunity to be wasted, she wants to take it slow and work her way up. She starts with his feet, which are hanging in mid-air just a few inches off the end of the bed. They're just like the rest of him - long. _Too long_, almost, except Molly knows how perfectly graceful and fluid he is on them.

Her gaze lingers for a moment, though she quickly dispels thoughts of that popular myth that states a man's feet are directly proportioned to… _Other_ areas. A blush creeps up her cheeks, and Molly briefly hates herself for how easily embarrassed she can become - even in a dark room where she's the only conscious human being.

She hurriedly continues and her eyes trace over the dark shape of those almost abnormally long legs. They're nothing more than a silhouette in the darkness, though she knows beneath his black trousers they will be just as deathly pale as the rest of him. In truth, Molly secretly admits to herself that she quite likes Sherlock's alabaster complexion. It makes him more special, more unique. He is a wonderful, ethereal angel; unquestioningly beautiful but also hard, strong and more than a little frightening.

Another soft murmur breaks the silence. All thoughts of enjoying Sherlock at a leisurely pace are gone, and Molly's gaze immediately flicker upward, worried that somehow her penetrating stares have disturbed his sleep. Her apprehension is broken by a smile that is automatic to seeing that face. He's still very much asleep - with comfortable, shallow breaths escaping through his slightly parted lips. He's facing her, and now that Molly has turned her head completely to look at him, his nose is no more than three inches from hers. Being this close is almost overwhelming. Molly briefly recalls a few moments ago, when she inwardly mused on the beauty of the moon, and isn't surprised to realise Sherlock is infinitely more magnificent to her.

The blue light from the alarm clock casts his features into heavy relief. Molly's eyes trace over those cheekbones - _those impossible cheekbones_ - that could have easily been carved from glass. He's thin in the face without being gaunt and he has a cupids bow that just absolutely cannot be real. Apart from it is. She almost wishes he had his eyes open so she could gaze into what she knows to be gorgeous, grey pools of intelligence and wit. Though, if he _did _have his eyes open, she could hardly be lying here like this; staring at him like a starving woman watching a roast dinner.

Molly finds herself wanting to run her fingers through his dark hair, which falls messily about his head in thick curls. He looks so peaceful. The usual crease that forms between his brow when deep in thought (always, then) is gone, as are the frown lines that sometimes appear at the corners of his mouth. Oh _God_, that mouth. Molly dedicates a minute or two just to that mouth. She can just about make out his teeth behind his lips.

She bites her own lip, almost to stop herself from reaching forward and biting _his_. Nevertheless, Molly dares herself to shuffle forward a little; stretching her neck forward so that the tip of her nose is less than an inch from his. If he opened his eyes now, she'd have a bloody difficult job of explaining herself to him. Her heart beats a little faster.

Suddenly, Sherlock gives a sleepy moan and the arm around Molly's waist tenses, bending at the elbow and inadvertently pulling her closer. She almost stops breathing; her entire body frozen in place. She waits until she's completely sure he's definitely comatose before allowing herself to exhale again. He hasn't woken, but nuzzles his face into her shoulder and gives another contented sigh against her skin. Molly is unsure of what to do. She lies staring upward - her heart hammering in her chest and her breath a little ragged.

She waits a while until her body calms itself & finally decides she'd best get some sleep. She doesn't dare move, but then again, she doesn't really want to. Closing her eyes, Molly indulges herself and melts into his unconscious embrace.


	4. Comforted

**Just to reiterate; this is a set of one-off ficlets based around **_**The Full House**_** by Emcee Frodis (#7895293) & **_**Hooper House Rules**_** by Amalia Kensington (#7973501). (Thankyou , you beautiful pair!)**

**There are BIG SPOILERS for both the**_** Sherlock**_** series & **_**The Full House/Hooper House Rules**_** here, so go read & watch them first before you do anything else!**

**Thankyou SO much to everyone who's reviewed so far - **_**Lex**_** & **_**Emcee Frodis **_**(obviously!), **_**faeryenchanter, coloradoandcolour, Adi Who is Also Mou**_**, Nocturnias, **_** , darrah & The Mad Squirrel**_**. It means ALOT & if you could take a few seconds to review I'd be forever grateful!**

**ALSO! If you have an idea for a chapter or you want a Sherlolly ficlet written about anything at all please let me know in a review! I've got a couple more ideas for chapters but it's super tough coming up with ideas when you're in someone else's ficverse and you don't want to change to add to the canon. So! Anything you'd like to see - please let me know asap & I'll probably write it for you!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters but if I owned a Sherlock he'd be tied to my bed.**

**This is a prequel chapter to Ch3 Unconscious. Bit of an odd idea but I thought it'd be cute. ^^ I LOVE SHERLOLLY FLUFF!**

* * *

**Chapter Four. **_**Comforted**_**. Set between Ch5 & Ch 6 of The Full House (where Sherlock is having to share a bed with Molly, and finding that her presence helps him sleep).**

Sherlock lay across one side of the bed, his legs folded neatly in front of him, a sheet of papers with various clippings & photographs arranged in his lap. He scrolled through a text file on his iPhone in one hand, making notes on the papers with the other. The room was lit by the soft golden glow of a bedside lamp beside him. The day was drawing to a close; he'd briefly noticed the sun setting outside the window a few hours ago. But that meant little to Sherlock. Day or night had little consequence for him when there was important work to be done.

He didn't look up when the door to the bedroom opened. Molly shuffled across the carpet, closing the door after her, & went over to wardrobe so she could dress for bed. He felt her linger a little at the window, but he didn't look up. This was only the third night that the pair had been forced to share Molly's bedroom. Nevertheless, he was getting used to her nervous, mouse-like behaviour that only seemed to amplify whenever they found themselves alone with each other.

Last night Irene hadn't returned until the early hours, so Sherlock had been able to spread himself across the living room alone, while Molly slept soundly in her bed. When The Woman had appeared, he'd made a quick exit (as to escape from the numerous offers to share the sofa) & continued to work by the light of the bedside table he was currently sat beside now.

Finally Molly made her way over to the bed and perched on the other side, her back to the detective. She sat there for a while, unmoving. Sherlock continued to tap at his phone but glanced sideways at her with a sigh,

"What are you doing, Molly?"

"Erm," She shifted herself so that her back was resting against the headboard - just as Sherlock's was - though he noted the gap she'd left between the pair of them was as big as it possibly could be. She was almost hanging off the side. Molly twisted her hands in her lap, clearly uncomfortable.

"Are you… Are you going to sleep soon?" She ventured.

"I don't sleep," He murmured back almost instantaneously as he leafed through some of his papers.

"That can't be true," She offered in her usual small voice, "I know not as much as other people, but… For the past two nights you've been wide awake. You have to sleep at some point."

Sherlock continued to stare at his phone, deep in thought. "I sleep… _Sporadically_."

There was a pause, then he looked up at her, "That said, I am very aware sitting upright and on top of the duvet isn't the usual position when one wishes to sleep." He cocked an eyebrow, gesturing to how she was sat, "Are _you _going to sleep soon?"

"Well, that's what I mean…" Molly gave him an apologetic half-smile.

Sherlock went back to his work, "I slept for approximately two hours thirty-five hours ago. I am fine. I am also more than capable of continuing to work with a sleeping woman by my side." He waved his hand, "Don't let me stop you."

Gingerly Molly stood up, folded back her side of the duvet, then climbed back into bed, this time beneath it. Sherlock could just see her staring up at him through the corner of his eyes. It was very distracting.

"You need to _close_ your eyes in order to sleep, Molly." He stated in a low grumble.

"Are you going to be… I mean, can I-? Erm. You need to-."

Sherlock gave a sigh, dropping the papers that were in his hand back to his lap before turning to look at her. He wished she'd get over this ridiculous schoolgirl crush that caused her to turn into a stammering idiot whenever forced to converse with him on a one-to-one basis. Gods be good, Molly was an intelligent and accomplished woman; the fact that she wasn't able to string a sentence together in his company confused and irritated Sherlock in equal measure.

"For goodness sake's Molly, please, for the sake of both of us,_ spit it out_."

Molly turned faintly pink and, somehow, her voice seemed to become even squeakier. "I can't sleep with that lamp on."

He swivelled his head to glance at the lamp on his left, then faced Molly again.

"You were asleep last night. I had it turned on then."

Molly bit her lip & nodded against her pillow, "Mm. It woke me up… About a dozen times. I was so tired at work today I almost fell asleep while running tests on some tissue samples."

Sherlock frowned, "I can't work in the darkness."

"And I can't work without getting any sleep." She half-smiled again, though she looked anxious, "Maybe… _You_ could just go to sleep tonight too?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he looked at Molly for a long moment, pondering her suggestion. Before moving into Molly's flat, it'd had been a long time since Sherlock had even been in a bed, nevermind _asleep_ in one. Of course, he had his own bed at 221b, but it was very rarely used. Often he preferred to lie on the sofa; with all of his books and notes and other knick knacks and thinking aids around him.

Finally he shuffled his papers and photographs and set them neatly down on the floor at the side of the bed. He quickly tapped at his phone for a few more moments before putting that down aswell. Finally, with a frown, he turned off the lamp and lay back against the headboard.

He felt Molly shuffle little as she turned onto her side, facing away from him, "Mm. Thankyou, Sherlock."

Sherlock inhaled deeply and stared forward into the darkness, "You're welcome Molly."

He sat there for a while, just staring and thinking. It was completely unnatural for him to lie down in the dark and force himself to lose consciousness - whenever he did manage to catch a couple of hours of sleep, it was often due to exhaustion and it crept upon him quietly while he lay thinking. Sherlock never actively decided to turn his brain off, he just allowed it to get some rest whenever it was absolutely necessary. Right now, however, his thoughts were buzzing. He felt it quite impossible to simply close his eyes and wander aimlessly into unconsciousness.

Glancing down, he saw the faint outline of Molly's sleeping form silhouetted beside him. She was lying on her side, facing away from him, and the light from her alarm clock bathed her features in a soft blue hue. Sherlock could see her usual expression of quiet apprehension was gone - the muscles on her face slackened and relaxed. She looked much better like that, he noted. Her long, dark eyelashes sent thin strips of shadows across her upper cheeks and the bridge of her nose. He found himself watching her breathe - shallow breaths that made her small breasts swell a little against the fabric of her nightdress. They escaped through her slightly parted lips - lips that he recalled he had once told her were too small. Now, he found, they didn't seem too small at all. Infact, they seemed… _Just so._

His pale eyes flickered upward to the alarm clock. It was half past one in the morning. Far too early to even contemplate sleep. Still, he couldn't just sit here for the next six hours staring at Molly's face. Maybe there was some logic in trying to get a night's rest in order to approach the case with renewed vigour tomorrow.

Carefully Sherlock allowed himself to slide down so that he lay perfectly horizontally, finding the soft pillows very welcome for soothing the aching back of his skull where he'd rested against the wooden headboard for so long. He was still lying above the duvet cover, though he steepled his fingers under his chin and taking a deep breath, closed his eyes. Unexpectedly, Sherlock found the darkness coupled with the absolute silence most agreeable. In her sleep, Molly had edged herself further from the edge of the bed and Sherlock could feel the soft rise and fall of her warm body next to him; the sound of her breathing was like a ticking clock - peaceful and oddly comforting.

Sherlock slowly exhaled and smiled to himself. He'd perhaps have to listen to Molly Hooper's advice more often.


	5. TeacherLearner Pt 1

**Thankyou **_**Lex**_** & **_**Emcee Frodis **_**(obviously!), **_**faeryenchanter, coloradoandcolour, Adi Who is Also Mou**_**, Nocturnias, **_** , darrah & The Mad Squirrel**_**. It means ALOT & if you could take a few seconds to review I'd be forever grateful!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters but if I owned a Sherlock he'd be well fed.**

**This part one of a mini two parter I've got going on. Prepare yourselves for the first bit of smut (coming soon!)**

* * *

**Chapter Five. **_**Teacher/Learner Pt1**_**. Set between Ch8, 9 & 10 of The Full House (after Sherlock and Molly DO EEET for the first time).**

Sherlock knew he should have been focused on Moran, but worryingly he found that his thoughts would quite often slip away from him and before he'd realised what was happening, he'd found them wandering over to Molly. Merely the fact that he was distracted was concerning enough, but if Sherlock were to be honest with himself, he found her remarks regarding their… _Coupling_… Even more frustrating.

He was sat cross-legged in an armchair; long fingers idly plucking at the strings of his violin. From his position he was able to look out the window and onto a dreary side street of London below. Unusually for Sherlock, he was looking but not _seeing_. Instead, the blushing face of Molly Hooper, with her shy grin and mussed-up brown hair repeatedly swam into his mind's eye.

He blinked a few times in an effort to rid himself of the distraction, though he already knew it was no good. The discussion from earlier in the morning was plaguing him.

_"Sherlock, don't get the wrong idea! I was with you and being with someone you... Well... You know... It makes all the difference in the world, even if it's... It wasn't bad, you were just sort of… Over-thinking it."_

Molly didn't seem to have been lying when she said she'd enjoyed the experience; but it certainly looked as if Sherlock had enjoyed it more. What on Earth did she mean, _over-thinking it_?

He gave a little growl of irritation, which made Toby the cat streak from under his armchair and across the living room. Although he deeply resented being spoken to like a child, the cold and logical side of Sherlock knew Molly had been right when she'd later told him he couldn't expect to be good at anything the first time round - this obviously included sex.

Disconcertingly, it seemed a new side the detective had awoken recently; one he had never known to previously exist. This side was currently warring internally against the other; it was the part of him that forced his mind to slip away from important cases and onto Molly. This was a part of him that made his blood run hot at the thought of her naked body against his, or run cold when there was a possibility she was in danger.

Sherlock had always been proud of being able to keep his feelings in check. Emotion was nothing more than a chemical balance in reaction to stimulus received through the body's senses. He never divulged in them, though he pondered that some occasionally had their benefits.

_Anger_, for one. A impassioned rage was sometimes exactly what the human body needed in order to fuel an action that may otherwise prove difficult or strenuous.

_Fear_, on the other hand, was an emotion Sherlock almost exclusively shut out. It was illogical, clouded one's judgement and was of no help to anyone in any situation.

_This_, though. This was new and Sherlock wasn't exactly sure what name it ought to have. _Lust_? _Desire_? Goodness, they seemed so… _Primitive_. For thirty-five years Sherlock had managed to get by extraordinarily well without so much as a kiss. Now, no longer a virgin, he found himself unable to focus on his work - instead torturing himself over the possibly inefficiency of his sexual prowess.

He sneered to no one in particular. It was pathetic. _Still_. He_ was_ treating this as an experiment, and put simply it wasn't in Sherlock's nature to approach any experiment without an adequate amount of competence. Further investigation would be required, though unfortunately there was only one person who was able to assist him.

Reaching for his phone, Sherlock quickly tapped out a message and sent it without allowing himself to ponder further.

_Are you nearby 221b? SH_

He inwardly braced himself when the device _sighed_ back at him only a few seconds later.

_A short cab ride away, should you need me. Though I have nothing new for you re: the case. What is this about? x_

Sherlock felt an explanation would be better made in person, so he simply replied;

_I need your expertise. Come now, if convenient. SH_

This time, the response was almost instantaneous.

_Well, that's an offer I can't refuse. Give me ten minutes. x_

* * *

Irene Addler sat back on the sofa across from Sherlock, one leg draped over the other. She took a sip of her tea before placing the cup down on the coffee table and arched a penciled eyebrow, a feline smile playing on her lips.

"So… Would I be right in deducing that this has nothing to do with Moriarty, or Moran?"

It wasn't much of a difficult presumption, but whenever Molly_ deduced _something from Sherlock, the detective was loathed to admit something warm stirred in the depths of his abdomen. It seemed having his own skills used against him awoke this _new _side, though he was interested to find it only seemed to occur when it was Molly doing the analysing. Although Irene was unmistakably an attractive woman - with sexual appeal that seemed to simply leak from her every pore - she just didn't have the same effect on Sherlock that Molly did. He wasn't sure what to do with this new information, so he put it to the back of his mind before speaking.

"You are correct. I…" He paused, unsure of how to begin to explain his predicament. Just going over the words in his head made him feel like an inexperienced teenager awkwardly consulting the agony aunt of a sex magazine. He scowled.

Irene noticed, and leant forward in her seat, holding her chin with one well-manicured hand.

"Let mummy guess," She purred, "You and the charming Miss Hooper have taken your - what shall we call it? _Relationship_? - to the next level."

Sherlock's pale eyes narrowed, and Irene's smile widened in response.

"And sex wasn't quite what you'd imagined? Was it a little scary…? Messy?" She lowered her eyes, "_Painful?_"

Sherlock exhaled heavily, putting his own teacup beside Irene's. He shifted in his seat, knowing the dark look on his face was plainly giving away just how uncomfortable he was broaching such a subject. He tried to give his usual air of aloofness as he spoke.

"You are correct. Last night Molly and I… _Coupled_ for the first time." He paused, expecting Irene to have made a sharp remark about his choice of verb. Nothing ever seemed to be adequate when he found himself talking about this topic aloud; s_lept with… made love to… had intercourse with… Ugh. _They were all completely incapable of describing the experience.

When he realised Irene was keeping silent, he carried on.

"I would like to continue with our…" Oh, again with the difficulty with finding words! Usually Sherlock considered himself an eloquent individual but this conversation was a bloody minefield of innuendo and misunderstanding. Irene had chosen to use _relationship_, though he didn't respond well to this term. Instead Sherlock settled on one he was suitably familiar with;

"…_Experiment_, though when I spoke with Molly, it seemed such an undertaking may be undermined by my previous lack of experience in such areas."

Goodness, even he knew he was talking balderdash. Thankfully, he didn't have Molly's problem of perpetually flushing crimson at every awkward moment, otherwise Sherlock was sure his cheeks would currently be blazing red-hot. As it was, he could be quietly confident in his usual alabaster skin tone and casual expression.

Irene's smile didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed a little at his odd choice of words.

"You're worried you're not good enough in the sack, is that it?" She finally concluded.

Sherlock swallowed hard at the sheer bluntness of her statement, though he was relieved that he wouldn't have to explain further, "Yes."

Irene positively beamed, "And, since I am the closest thing you have to an expert on sex, you want me to teach you some tricks in order to impress Molly?"

"Yes."

"I'm also presuming you simply wish this to be a theoretical lecture," Her dark eyes grazed over Sherlock's torso as she spoke, "I have time for something a little more… _Practical_, if you'd like?"

"That won't be necessary."

The Woman pouted at him, "Spoilsport."

She then puckered her lips in thought, dragging a long red nail across her chin absent-mindedly. It seemed she was enjoying herself. Sherlock briefly wondered if he should be concerned.

"Well, if we're _only talking _I'd rather not be here all afternoon. But if you'd like I can quickly run you past all of the usual sensory areas; without knowing Molly intimately I'm not privy to her personal tastes, but I'm quite sure her erogenous zones will be largely the same as any other woman's. And I know them _all_ by heart."

Sherlock sighed idly, "I already have a capable understanding of human physiology. I am well aware which parts of a female's anatomy serve her best when trying to achieve sensory pleasure."

Irene shook her head sagely, her smile slow and deliberate.

"Sherlock, darling. You know the theory. _Anyone _can know the theory. You know _what _to touch, but you don't know _when_ to do it, or _how_. You can't just press your lips or your fingers to a certain point on her body and expect her to immediately become flushed with romantic ecstasy. It's so much _more_ than that. It's not about finding the right formula and going through the motions - it's falling into complete, spontaneous passion. It's teasing her until she's begging you - _simply begging you_ - to keep going…"

Sherlock swallowed again as Irene stood out of her chair, and folded her arms.

"Let the lesson begin."

* * *

**Part two coming soon! :) Please r/r! Thankyou!**


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